A Test of Faith
by Surreptitious Chi X
Summary: Sequel to Trying Too Hard. AU. Jarlaxle and Artemis resume their traveling after their break in Aberiss. Artemis doesn't know if he wants a relationship. Jarlaxle has a hard time waiting.
1. Mollie Malloy

Disclaimer: Artemis and Jarlaxle are not mine. The setting of Forgotten Realms is not mine. Faerun, then, is also not mine.

Author's Note: This is the sequel to Trying Too Hard. There is no way I'm going to recap, I am marching on. You can either proceed, or you can go back and read Trying Too Hard. I won't force you, but never let it be said I didn't warn you. The characters have developed differently than in canon, and are considering a relationship. With each other.

* * *

Artemis had refused to indulge him. For the next week, from tiny village to tiny village, even on the road where Jarlaxle was convinced no one would see them, in inviting little glades that promised privacy, wherever they went, the assassin kept as much distance between them as if nothing had happened. He saw Artemis watching him whenever they arrived at a new village, scrutinizing his reaction to every woman, and desperately, he would turn to Artemis, only to have the man avert his eyes. He unconsciously stroked the hilt of his dagger, a little gesture that made sweat bead on Jarlaxle's upper lip. He vowed not to give into it.

He knew it was a test; Artemis needed some proof of loyalty from him after their stay in Aberiss. He blocked out his lust with anger and self-righteousness in order to conquer this test, to prove his resolve when he said that he wanted a relationship, a serious relationship, with the assassin.

The day after they left Aberiss, Artemis had purposefully started a conversation. He had forced Jarlaxle to say, "I want a relationship with you. I do not want to wish this upon you without your consent; yet I am willing to set everything aside to that this can be."

And now Jarlaxle was stuck. Artemis' response had been, "I'll think about it."

'I'll think about it?' Jarlaxle seethed, glaring at him as they rode towards Perrin, reputed to be a much larger town compared to the ones they'd been traveling through. Supposedly, they would know when they came to it because of a wall around it made of pearly white stones and mortar. Jarlaxle had never been denied before. Never. If he wanted something, he could find a way to get it, no matter what the cost. He could manipulate, he could trick, he could steal, and he could hire someone else to use their services to complete his goal. It was a novelty – an insult! – to be put in a situation where his honor demanded that he not coax, trick, or coerce the desired object out of the person who held it.

The problem being, he supposed, that it's not an object I want. It's a thing. Person. Human. He ran his eyes up and down his companion's stern body. Then he reminded himself that he was supposed to be getting angry so that he didn't feel the claws of desire digging into him quite so fiercely. The drow mercenary let his eyes linger. The muscular arm, the tight line of the leather jerkin against the assassin's waist… Maybe I can resume being angry later, he thought. He found his gaze being drawn to…

Maybe not. Let's be angry. Angry is definitely safer. Yes. Um. Angry. Jarlaxle scowled. He tried to comfort himself with the scenery, which, as always, was so splendid that he was tempted to hire someone to paint a likeness of it. They were passing another copse of trees in the distance. He looked at it longingly as it passed.

"What are you wooing with your eyes _now_?" Artemis said, jarring Jarlaxle out of his mournful contemplation.

"I happen to be looking at the scenery," the drow said, straightening in his saddle stuffily.

"Really?" The assassin raised an eyebrow. "Since when did the scenery involve _me_?"

"This is your realm," Jarlaxle said. "I should think you would want to take a more active approach in appreciating its finer elements." He was trying to avoid the conversation, since he was in no mood to discuss why he was looking at Artemis instead of exclaiming over flowers or trying to name butterflies. It was a beautiful name, butterflies. But, why name such a wonderful little creature 'butter', a kind of solidified fat from livestock, and 'flies', annoying little black things with wings that buzzed around and made everyone get up and shoo it away by dancing all over fresh cakes on cooling racks? He pondered this.

"If you are talking about my alleged 'insensitivity' towards what my horses' hooves do to a bed of wildflowers," Artemis began.

Jarlaxle forced a pained smile. "Yes. I am." He hoped the assassin took this as a legitimate source of the drow's annoyance instead of reading Jarlaxle's expression correctly, which was 'Admit that you've wanted to do things to my naked body all week and stop torturing me, damn you!' He'd been robbed of his coping mechanism, and Artemis had not even promised to be the replacement. Even above such considerations of Artemis' feelings, what he may or may not be dealing with in regards to his past, and his well-deserved skepticism of Jarlaxle's motives, the drow had been using lust as a crutch for his inadequacies for centuries. Suddenly being forbidden to touch, taste, or otherwise fool around with someone else's body, Jarlaxle felt, was akin to suddenly stopping someone from taking very strong drugs. He'd heard humans call it 'cold turkey', and it didn't sound like a particularly appetizing thing to happen. He hated the taste of cold turkey. Literally, and figuratively.

"It is a plant. It is on the ground. If it does not move, then it is bound to be trampled," Artemis said. "I've heard that plants and animals can adapt as well as higher life forms. If that is true, then if a flower really didn't want to be squashed flat, it would learn to get out of the way." He looked faintly pleased with himself for having an argument ready for once. Usually Jarlaxle sprung one on him and beat him to death with the drow's point of view before he had a chance to say anything.

The drow mercenary could not bring himself to order Artemis to dismount and let him – At the very least, have a kiss. He consoled himself by imagining one, which caused him to completely forget what Artemis had just said. Five minutes passed unusually blissfully, compared to the rest of the week, as Jarlaxle gratefully sank into a soothing fantasy about how it had felt the last time they had been in bed together.

The assassin glanced at him suspiciously. Either he had just won an argument for the first time of his life against the annoyingly quick-witted elf, or Jarlaxle was ignoring him. He cleared his throat. Jarlaxle made no response. By the gods, he's _ignoring_ me. Artemis couldn't believe it. The reality almost broke his mind. His companion never ignored him. Even when he was pretending to ignore, he was always perfectly aware of everything the assassin said or did, and remembered in fine detail if the assassin did something he didn't approve of.

A note of fear crept into Artemis' gray eyes. Maybe the drow was hatching one of his insane plans, one of the many ill-advised escapades that almost crushed them forever in the jaws of death. He'd begun to hope that he might live to see next month. Maybe he was wrong. "I expect that you have a plan for when we reach Perrin?" he asked. His manner was cautious.

That was a good question. Jarlaxle hated to be caught unprepared during the rare occasions when Artemis actually asked for his guidance, but he didn't have anything other than a handful of fantasies about cornering Artemis inside the inn and making love to him. "It is in progress," Jarlaxle said. At least that should hold him off.

That's what I was afraid of, the assassin thought. "Am I to assume that this will involve winning by the skin of our teeth, again?"

"No, not especially," the drow said absently.

Artemis remained silent, puzzled. Then what _is_ he thinking about?

Artemis hadn't felt the urge to touch another living being once they'd left Aberiss. He'd been cut off from his body for over a decade. It had been unusual to suddenly feel. And now it was gone again. Back to the way it was… But as he thought that, he felt quivers of uncertainty in himself. He hated those feelings. Enough uncertainties pile up, and he would be crushed beneath them like a landslide, easy prey for anyone that came along. He never again wanted to be easy prey. He felt Jarlaxle making him that way, a little more each day. Did the drow plan it that way? Was he preparing for Artemis' downfall?

He said no, the assassin reminded himself, fighting to keep his pulse under control. He heard my dream, and he said no. He said he wasn't going to hurt me. Then that hideous, cynical voice said, 'A _drow_. Told you he wouldn't hurt you.' There was such scathing criticism in that voice that Artemis felt he would buckle under it.

"I don't believe you," he said, but there was a double meaning in his words that he tried unsuccessfully to escape.

"I – Pardon?" Jarlaxle looked up at him, his expression somewhat concerned.

_Concerned. _

You're a fool, he cursed himself. He didn't kill you then, and he won't lay a finger on you now. What is wrong with you? Did you learn nothing? That was the harshest criticism he could possibly give himself; he had survived by learning from even the smallest things, a sight, a sound, a touch, a smell, a fleeting impression before a figure disappeared from sight. He'd had a whole week in Aberiss to learn Jarlaxle's intentions, and acting as though he'd come away empty-handed, even after using himself as bait to lure the worst in his companion's mind out into the open – _That_ was unacceptable. "I'm sorry," he said.

Jarlaxle nodded, puzzled; he clearly wanted to pursue this, but saw that he couldn't. Not without Artemis withdrawing and refusing to speak any more. "Alright," he said.

That act of compassion was enough to make Artemis sick to his stomach with guilt. "We should stop soon. It's getting late into the afternoon."

The drow hadn't noticed. "What? So it is. I guess I haven't been hungry." Jarlaxle looked around for a good place to stop along the rolling fields surrounding the dirt road.

The assassin didn't think he could stomach a meal. "I mean to rest," he said, hoping that would clarify things enough so that Jarlaxle didn't offer him any rations. His companion's good manners could cause him no end of torment sometimes. He wished frequently for company that was rude and sullen. Someone who would soothingly match his mood.

Jarlaxle scrutinized Artemis' face. He did look unusually tired. The drow hoped that it was only discomfort over the lack of intimacy between them, and not something more serious. Humans weren't impervious to illness by far. It seemed only luck that he'd chosen a human companion who didn't often get sick. Sometimes even hardy warriors had weak immune systems.

Before long, they came to a pleasant creek. They dismounted and led their horses into the field, away from where their path crossed it, arching over the river with a sturdy looking wooden bridge. The day was beginning to warm up, something that Jarlaxle didn't think either of them had noticed. The horses eagerly devoured the grass and weeds around them, snapping up little, bright yellow flowers whose hollow stems leaked a gooey white substance. Out of curiosity, Jarlaxle bent down, plucked one, and brought it up to his nose to smell. He made a face. Pungent. "What is this?" he asked.

Artemis looked over from where he was standing over his pack, a few feet away. Had he been in a better mood, he would have tweaked the curious drow by pretending not to understand. He smiled slightly at Jarlaxle's reaction to the flower. He's discovered that he can't like all flowers, the assassin thought. "It's a dandelion."

"Dandy…lion?" Jarlaxle stroked the thin petals with a fingertip, looking thoughtful. "Why didn't we see them before in other places?"

Artemis shrugged and went back to looking through his travel bag.

Jarlaxle took this as the dismissal it was and wandered over to the creek. It was fairly shallow, only shin-deep, and it was less than six feet wide. The grass dropped off, suddenly, and then there was the water, brushing past little plants that dipped into the water. A large quantity of dark, round stones were at the bottom, dark against the light gray bed.

He sat down and took off his boots, sticking his feet in the water. What an incredible sensation. The soles of his feet encountered soft, squishy material. He tilted his head. With one hand, he scraped up a handful of the earth at the bottom of the creek. It was soft and sticky in his hand. "Clay," Jarlaxle said, wiggling his fingers and playing with it. He really wasn't that hungry, so he amused himself by exploring.

They moved on without eating anything. After crossing the bridge, the dirt path stretched out straight into the horizon, and the land began to flatten into a plain. They rode in silence, the horses being allowed to go at a slow gait. Jarlaxle noticed that all horses usually walked, muscles rippling lazily, if let to their own devices. The warm weather, clear day, and large white clouds keeping the sun from becoming too hot cheered him. He allowed it to soothe away all thoughts of him, Artemis, and the smell of sweat as the white sheets clung to their bodies.

When the sun set, it was spectacular. He chattered excitedly about it, leaning back in his saddle. The sky turned a rich orange where the sun sank low, and highlights caught the clouds and turned them into floating balls of raspberry cream. His eyes stung as the sun let out one final burst of blinding light before it disappeared, leaving pink and purple in its wake.

They settled down before the light show in the sky ended, Artemis muttering about how they didn't need a fire since people could see it around for miles and how much he hated dull, despicable, flat ground.

Jarlaxle wanted to sing some songs.

Artemis wouldn't let him.

Jarlaxle sang them anyway, lying back in the short grass, his arms crossed contentedly under his head. "What do you think?" he said once he finished. He was grinning, one of those disconcerting, bright white smiles that made his skin look even blacker. "I heard it sung around Garris a few days ago and thought it worth remembering."

"Why do you care about some wench called Mollie Malloy?" Artemis said.

A slight frown passed over the drow's face. "I think, my friend, you are missing the point. The words don't matter. What about the tune?"

"Pathetic. I've heard a dozen songs that sound approximately the same."

The drow mercenary looked displeased. "You have no sense of culture."

"You're a tourist. I'm not. You're supposed to be impressed. I can't imagine a drow being named Mollie Malloy."

"I told you, I don't care about the words."

The assassin smirked.

"You just enjoy ruining my fun," Jarlaxle accused.

He gave the drow a sidelong look. "Yes."

The sky darkened and began its nightly ritual of revealing the moon, and coyly unveiling little freckles of light against the bluish purple darkness.

"Come, Artemis, watch the stars with me!"

"How can you watch something that doesn't go anywhere? You may as well watch a house. Grass. A lamp post. Concrete."

Jarlaxle looked agonized. "None of those things are beautiful."

Artemis grudgingly looked up. He didn't look impressed. "Your darkness is black. Ours has white dots in it. Aside from that key difference, it is exactly the same."

"They come far more varied in color," the drow said, glaring. "There are white lights, blue lights, and rare pink or red lights." He sounded as if he were pouting when he said, "Those are my favorite."

The assassin held back another bored comment. For some reason, Artemis lacked the heart in it necessary to really say something scathing. He looked away from the object of Jarlaxle's innocent sport and tried to go to sleep. They'd agreed that he be the first to take rest.

He didn't want to admit it to himself, but he felt safer with Jarlaxle beside him, a tangible aura prickling his skin, the drow's presence a foot away, cross-legged and looking around alertly. Artemis would give anything for the luxury of being able to close his eyes and be assured that the world was not going to sneak up on him. And now, by some unforeseen fate, he had that luxury.

Jarlaxle noted almost half an hour later that his friend was smiling in his sleep.


	2. Riding All Morning

That morning, Jarlaxle was silent. They rode at a slow pace, not particularly in any hurry to get anywhere, a change that had Artemis more relaxed than usual. He noted in the back of his mind that this was another change of mood that would have been impossible until recently.

Part of him had hoped that nothing had really changed in Aberiss. Being able to enjoy the ride through the fertile plain with the hypnotic thudding of their horses' hooves on the dirt road and the warm scent from the waving fields of lavender that grew on the side of the road made him re-evaluate his obsession with making sure he stayed the same.

It jolted through him with an unfamiliar tinge of wonder that he didn't even mind the little yellow butterfly that flew out in front of them, batting to and fro around Jarlaxle as if fascinated by the drow.

The assassin was worried when even one of the drow's little insect friends couldn't seem to cheer up the suddenly morose mercenary.

"I think it likes you," Artemis said, trying to get Jarlaxle's attention.

The drow looked around from side to side. Then he finally noticed the butterfly. "Don't be silly," he said. "It's only an insect. It's probably attracted by some pollen I picked up on my clothing yesterday from those ugly yellow flowers." Jarlaxle seemed distracted, even as he was saying it.

Artemis almost fell off his horse. The butterfly flew away. "Now you hurt its feelings," he said, only half-joking. "Ugly? Your mood is what's ugly, my friend. What's the matter? Did you sleep on a rock last night? Or has exposure to the sun finally caused your brain to spoil?"

Jarlaxle glanced at him, frowning, a bemused smile tugging at his lips. No, he thought. It couldn't be that easy. Does he not – does he honestly have so little experience that he doesn't understand – he doesn't _know_ what he does to me? "You really don't know, do you?"

"Know?" Artemis laughed. "Do you remember a single time I would waste words? If I knew, I wouldn't bother to ask."

"It's you," Jarlaxle said, gazing at him and trying to judge his reaction. "You're the cause of this ugly mood I'm in."

"Now you blame me for everything," Artemis said. "I'm not responsible for upholding your happiness. Only children need someone else to make them happy."

He still didn't understand. Jarlaxle insisted, "It is you. Do you not understand that your words have caused me to dwell on matters of our relationship?"

"What words?" the assassin said. Now he frowned in earnest. "I don't remember saying anything you could brood over."

Dear gods, Lloth is alive and well, Jarlaxle thought, holding his head in his hands. I've been cursed. I may as well never live to see tomorrow. If I have to explain the ways of civilized social interactions to a human, the surface is doomed. "Please tell me you understand the concept that speaking carelessly can hurt countless others around you in mostly irreparable ways?"

Artemis blinked. "I suppose. But why would 'countless others' bother to listen to an assassin like me?"

"That has nothing to do with it," Jarlaxle said. "Your social status has no impact on whether or not your words will be listened to and you will be allowed to hurt others."

"Like who?"

Jarlaxle stared at him steadily. "Like me," he said. "You've hurt _me_. Are you satisfied? Is there anyone else you would like me to point out as a victim of your insensitive manner?"

"_You_?" the assassin said. He couldn't believe it. "You're invincible. You don't know the meaning of slings and arrows."

But at the look on the drow's face, Artemis saw that the only reason he had ever thought that was because it had made him feel better. It had brought him less pain to believe that Jarlaxle was too slippery, too stubborn, and too self-centered to let anyone else rain on his happiness. He didn't know how coming to that knowledge about himself was supposed to make him feel, but it made him feel empty. He wanted to retreat back into himself, the way he was before Jarlaxle started messing with him and making him say things.

Jarlaxle knew he'd gotten through the to the assassin. He didn't know what would happen next. Would Artemis change the subject, or would he remain silent and pretend as though their conversation hadn't happened? I'm not expecting an apology to come from Artemis' lips, if that's what you want, the drow told himself. He'd most likely worry about how his actions affect his own wellbeing before he considers mine.

"What's the use?" Jarlaxle said. "You're not ready for the commitment of having a _pet_!"

He noticed out of the corner of his eye that they were both making their horses nervous. Perceptive things. Feeling a little sorry for them, he stroked the head of his horse. He knew his words sounded harsh and bitter, but he couldn't make Artemis understand if he stuck to his routine of being the calm, unruffled one of the two.

Artemis reacted instinctively with a surge of anger at the slight. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asked. If he had been thinking, he would have anticipated his request's effect. He let himself in for it.

"It means that I believe you incapable of giving up your pretense of not being able to care for anyone other than yourself in order to take care of someone or something else," Jarlaxle said, his eyes snapping coldly. "You would deny a dog food for the sake of not appearing to care about a mere beast's wellbeing even if it curled up on your feet and begged for it." His hands tightened around the reins of his horse. "How could you form a relationship with me that is any different?"

Artemis' anger recoiled, replaced by shock. "I am not treating you like a dog," he said.

"Indeed," the drow mercenary said. "Instead you are not treating me like anything. Am I wrong, or have you been attempting to forget what happened between us ever since we left that day?" This was the first time that Jarlaxle had ever really admitted to being upset by something in the assassin's presence. He didn't have to, now, but he wanted Artemis to know what it would be like if he really wanted a close relationship with anyone. "I am not going to stand by you and be abused. I am not a slave, and I am not some prisoner to be used as an outlet for your anger."

"Do you mean that you _don't_ want a relationship with me?" the assassin asked. He stared at Jarlaxle as if trying to drill through him and find the truth.

"Would that matter to you even if I did?" Jarlaxle asked. "To the best of my recollection, when I asked you the same thing, your response was 'I'll think about it'."

"Everything has gone wrong because of one little thing that I said almost five days ago?" Artemis said, incredulous. "You can't be serious. I didn't mean that it didn't matter to me whether or not you gave a damn."

He ran a hand through his hair, deeply confused. For most of his life, he'd had to kill someone to get the point across. Usually, words were wasted on the people he kept company with. He was used to having his opinions brushed away like grains of sand. And now, one little thing that he had said in the midst of a conversation had been taken seriously and blown out of proportion.

"Then what did you mean?" Jarlaxle asked patiently.

He hadn't really meant to start an argument, after all. He'd just been trying to force his companion beyond his skewed, childlike understanding of how he affected the world around him. In a way, it worried the drow mercenary that in the front of social interaction, Artemis had assumed an attitude of helplessness. He never seemed to know what to say, and he didn't try anymore. Assuming that there was once a time that he had tried to say the right thing. If such a time had ever existed, it had clearly been a long time ago.

"I meant that you had done everything you could have, and I still wasn't sure," Artemis said. "I _have_ been thinking about it."

What a rotten time this would be to be ambushed by bandits, he thought. They'd stand more than half a chance of carving us up in a situation like this. We're distracted, we're arguing, and it's a nice day. But then he looked around and realized again that the ground was flat for miles around. This should have comforted him, but still…

"I am comforted to hear that," Jarlaxle said, but he wasn't smiling. Even in his irritation and his stung feelings, he still wanted to let Artemis decide for himself what they were going to do about themselves.

The assassin's eyes slid away from him and focused on the dirt road and the scent of the lavender. "I have seen relationships rooted in the sexual needs of both partners, and such…behavior," he said finally, "disgusts me. I would never want that."

Jarlaxle, of course, had an opinion of the complete opposite; he believed such relationships were mostly harmless when handles correctly, and beneficial to both parties. He still respected Artemis' opinion, but he felt a little disappointed.

However, he'd always known since the two of them had met that such agreements were not in the assassin's nature. For all the time they'd traveled together, to the best of his knowledge Entreri had been completely celibate.

The drow inclined his head to show that he'd been listening, but had nothing to say.

"I have almost done that. With you. In that town we have thankfully left behind us as far away as possible," Artemis said.

Jarlaxle wanted to smack his forehead. _That_ was why the assassin was so humiliated by their encounter. He felt stupid for having been too caught up in his own emotional turmoil to reason out the conflict the assassin had no doubt been struggling with between his lust and his ideals. "You were afraid. You didn't want it to happen again once we left the town."

Artemis nodded. He didn't want to look up.

"You feel as though you've cheapened yourself somehow to me," the drow mercenary said, concern flashing through his features.

"Let's not talk about it any more," the assassin said. He was beginning to look openly pained. "The horses need a rest. We've been riding all morning."


	3. Premonition

They dismounted and let the horses eat. The two of them milled around, trying not to look at each other. Artemis noticed suddenly that there was a grayish white blob in the distance. He wordlessly motioned with his hand and then jerked his head towards the horizon. Jarlaxle looked.

"Well, well, well," he said. "So this is Perrin."

They both studied it, not sure what to make of it. The distant city seemed ominous somehowafter the turn the morning had taken. They were not sure of anything, and the bone white walls of Perrin did not help their uncertainty. In every way, they felt as though they'd come at a crossroads.

"Do we really want to go there?" Artemis said, voicing their unease.

The drow mercenary shrugged, but his eyes were clouded with something close to worry. "Why not?" he said.

Artemis couldn't tell if it was left over from the conversation they'd purposefully discontinued upon deciding to stop, or if something about the city was as disquieting to Jarlaxle as it was to the assassin. Normally, he didn't believe in premonitions; he'd always believed it was the stuff of impoverished widows trying to eke out a living as soothsayers. Experiencing a groundless emotion unsettled him. "I don't," he said, his eyes still fixed on where the dirt trail dwindled to a smudge in the distance. He lost his voice for a few moments. Jarlaxle saw his hand subconsciously stray to his dagger hilt. Then Artemis swallowed, and said, "I think we…should turn around." He glanced behind them, as if double-checking that their way had not been barred. He glanced back at the Perrin. "Turn around," he mumbled, repeating himself under his breath.

"It's not that far now," Jarlaxle said, waving a hand at it and planting his other hand on his hip. He looked at the assassin incredulously. "What did we ride all the way out here for?" The drow completely ignored any nagging feelings of doubt he might have had. "No, I say we move on."

Artemis was already walking back to his horse, looking as though he were preparing to get back in the saddle.

"Artemis?" Jarlaxle half followed him with an expression of irritated foreboding.

The assassin wasn't listening to him.

This made him far more shaken than some distant spectre of a city on the horizon. He didn't want to intrude on his friend's personal space, but on the other hand, his friend was pushing him to it. Jarlaxle tightened a hand around Artemis' shoulder and tensed, preparing to turn the assassin around.

Artemis spun around under his own power and came face to face with the drow, startlingly close. Jarlaxle took a step back. "If you value my opinion…" the man said, pausing warningly and holding up a hand. There was a chilling solemnity in his features. His gray eyes, dark with some unfathomable emotion, bored into the drow. "There is death in that city." After this surprisingly superstitious statement, he turned around and mounted his horse.

Jarlaxle hurriedly scrambled for his own horse and leapt onto it as he saw Artemis leaving without him. "Wait!" He rode after the man, quickly catching up to him by urging his horse practically into a gallop. It was a bumpy ride, and the drow was almost too surprised to stay in the saddle. The assassin didn't slow his pace. He increased it. What are we running from? Jarlaxle thought, dismayed.

Loud beats from their horses' hooves shattered the silence, and even as it had been on their way down the trail, they met no one.

Artemis didn't know what to think. As they met the beginnings of the field of lavender again, even those innocent purple flowers seemed dangerous. He felt his senses intensifying the same way they did when another assassin was trying to kill him. He didn't understand. It was a feeling of murderous pursuit.

But then, as they followed a turn in the road to accommodate an old tree, he put together what had been in the back of his mind. Whenever they came to a large city, it invariably had more traffic along that area of the road both coming and going. Perrin was the largest town of all the places they'd visited so far, or so the local people had said.

Artemis' stomach plummeted. It had been days, and they had seen no one. They hadn't even seen fires in the distance. And in fact, why was the road to Perrin so long? Why hadn't someone built more villages, or simply built Perrin closer to the rest of the people in this country?

Everyone was avoiding the lavender-swept plains.

Why did they hear no whispers of doomsday stories about Perrin if it was so dangerous to go there? Had something happened to Perrin recently no one knew about since the city was so far away?

The assassin was uncomfortable with having all these questions left over. He liked things neatly tied up so he didn't have to worry about something unexpected killing him because he hadn't accounted properly for a possibility.

It's a possibility we've both walked into a trap, Artemis thought. But that yielded a crop of more questions. Who had they angered? Was it personal? Did someone just want to trap anyone going to Perrin? Was the trap in Perrin? Was that the reason there were no people? Did people come to Perrin only never to return?

Or, forbid, was there nothing the matter except that Perrin was extremely unpopular for some mundane reason, such as an obnoxious leader in the community no one could stand, or a local tradition to make one's meal out of nothing but turnips?

Well, even if that was so, he consoled himself, we still wouldn't likely enjoy our stay there.

The assassin became aware of the fact that he was hungry. This startled him sufficiently to make him consider slowing down or stopping altogether. We didn't see anything on the way that was dangerous, he reminded himself. Surely we're not that naïve if there is danger to ourselves around here. Unless whatever has been posing a threat was waiting until now.

To be safe, they should backtrack all the way to Namouth, the last village they'd been through before deciding to seek Perrin. That destination was between two and three days away.

Alright, hold it, he thought, allowing his horse to slow down. If we're going to go all the way back to Namouth, we may as well pace ourselves.

Jarlaxle at last had the opportunity to pull up beside him and ask. "What are we doing?"

"Riding."

The drow frowned at him. "Why?"

"We're running."

"From what?" Jarlaxle said. "Death?" He'd never believed a person could run from death, anyway. If it was your time… Well, then again, in drow society, even if it wasn't. Artemis wasn't being reasonable. "This is most peculiar behavior from you, my friend."

"I don't care."

This was unsatisfying. The drow mercenary was vaguely aware that he'd followed the assassin's instincts in this matter, and so had felt a little cut out. Plainly, he'd done something that he didn't know the reason why he did it, and that doing that happened without his thinking, and he was thinking now.

He let Artemis pull ahead so that he wouldn't be disturbed. He was not in the mood to talk.

It sent tremors of fear through the core of his being, this renewed proof of trust. Jarlaxle felt keenly about how dangerous trust was. Faith, even worse. 'Faith' in someone? He hoped not. Faith was groundless, idealistic belief. The last time he'd had faith in someone, he'd gone and gotten himself killed. On purpose, no less. For all he knew, without a single second thought, 'goodbye cruel world' or 'sorry to leave you hanging'. Without the least bit of consideration. The last time he'd clung to someone for support, life had been undeniably clear: Thou Shalt Not Befriend.

And now, the drow had broken that commandment. Again.

Is it some hidden character defect? Jarlaxle thought. Why do I have a death wish? Why? Why me? Has the strain of living over four centuries finally gotten to me?

"Haven't I suffered _enough_?" Why is it never enough?

Jarlaxle felt wretched. He was fully aware he'd made himself this way by dwelling. That didn't help. Worse, he'd just had to depress himself during a point in his life where he couldn't just pick up a girl and have his way with her in order to feel better. He didn't know what Artemis was doing to him. The drow suddenly had doubts that wenching _would_ make him feel better. That was insane.

Ah, but do you ever really feel better? he asked himself.

I've had enough of your babble, he answered. You're the reason I feel as though I'd almost rather be turned into a drider than try to understand human beings anymore. I was having fun. And now introspection has to come along. _Fun. _Is enjoying myself so wrong?

At other people's expense. At Artemis' expense.

Isn't that the only way? Fun is like anything else. It only works because one person loses so that someone else may gain. It's all in a balance. All the fun in the world is already in circulation.

He frowned. Isn't it?

I don't like this. I don't like this at all. Why do people call introspection the means to self-improvement? Jarlaxle thought. He'd thought, months ago, that improving one's character was frivolous, so it ought to be fun. Experimenting with Artemis had certainly been fun. This worried him. Why wasn't it any fun to do improvements on one's own character? It certainly hadn't improved his humor. He was withdrawn, grumpy, and sometimes downright unsociably mean. If he didn't know better, he'd say that Artemis was rubbing off on him.

He'd faced one of his biggest issues back in Aberiss, one that had dictated his behavior for a long time. It had felt good to be able to set aside his fears that he would hurt another man if he tried to be intimate. He'd thought, well, now that I have this out of the way, I won't have to face another fear for at least a few decades. Unexpected good work. I need to reward myself.

He'd thought the chain would end. And now, here he was, coming face to face with another fear he hadn't even known he'd had! He'd always told himself that friendship was a good thing; it was just that no one had any genuine feelings for him.

Jarlaxle closed his eyes. He sighed and opened them again. It had taken him decades to trust Zaknafein; he'd kept pushing and pushing, trying to probe for the time when Zak would betray him so that he could be ready. And then he'd slipped up. He expected the betrayal almost before Zaknafein realized Jarlaxle's mistake, tried to think of some way to save himself, and instead, Zak had saved him. He hadn't known the betrayal would come later.

But it wasn't betrayal, Jarlaxle thought. Somehow, he didn't manage to be very convincing to himself. He just died, that's all…On purpose…Without telling me…After refusing my offer to make him one of my partners in my business ventures –

No. Stop it.

He tried to concentrate on riding his horse.

Eventually, they did stop. At that time, both they and their horses were exhausted.

Artemis sat on the ground, sweating in the late afternoon sun. His black tunic stuck to his skin in places. He wiped an arm across his forehead, then took a long pull at his canteen. "Don't you think it's suspicious that we have seen no one coming or going from that city?"

Jarlaxle considered this. He played idly with his feather, holding his wide brimmed hat in his hands. He wasn't sweating. Heat didn't bother him; it was actually much warmer in the Underdark. What made him sweat was humidity. "They could be reclusive people," he pointed out.

"That wouldn't keep people from coming to them, that would keep them from coming to others," Artemis said. He took a shorter drink, and then wiped his forehead with his arm again.

Jarlaxle looked away, not wanting to admit that the assassin had a point. "Then what do you propose we do?"

"We're mercenaries," Artemis said. "It's not like we've been engaged by somebody to travel to Perrin. We don't need to." He stopped and narrowed his eyes at the drow. "Unless you're curious."

"No. No, I'm not curious." He put his hat back on his head.

"I think you are," Artemis said. "I think you want to go back there because you _know_ something's wrong."

This got no response from the drow mercenary.

"You know something's wrong, so you want to go over there and revel in it. You wallow in disaster like a pig wallows in mud. You can't help it. You're a drow."

Jarlaxle sighed. "No, my friend, I do not want to go to Perrin and wallow in disaster. Thank you for your offer, but I don't think even heads on pikes could improve my disposition right now."

The assassin didn't know whether or not to suspect sarcasm. Jarlaxle worried him sometimes. "You're still really upset about what happened, aren't you?" he said. He frowned. It made him uncomfortable to think he held that much power over people. Short of cutting off limbs, he didn't think it was even possible for him to affect someone else. He thought anyone that let him hurt their feelings was a fool. He never would have thought his companion would be such a person.

"Yes, my friend, I am indeed upset over 'what has happened'." Jarlaxle wouldn't look at him. Instead he watched a long grass stalk wave in the breeze. "That is what it means to have someone care."

"Then I don't want you to," Artemis said, hardly aware of what he was saying.

Jarlaxle glanced at him, his expression tinged with disbelief.

"It hardly benefits me to antagonize you," the assassin said. He blinked uneasily, wondering what made Jarlaxle look at him that way.

"Go on," the drow said, raising his eyebrows. He was now looking directly into Artemis' eyes.

"We should forget about the whole thing," Artemis said. He found a twig by his foot and nervously dragged it across a mole hole by his right hand. He'd rather look at the mound of earth than at Jarlaxle. "I made a mistake. I thought it might work, but it didn't. I don't think we could have known that if we hadn't tried. I want to stay with you. Aberiss is down the road, and I don't think we're likely to go back. It is over now."

"Move on," Jarlaxle said, watching him closely.

Artemis thought, So he understands. He felt a curious emotion, a mix between relief and emptiness. He could stop his pain now; it didn't have to go on. There was no harm done. It reminded him somehow of the feeling of a clean white sheet against his skin. The assassin stopped poking the mole hole. "Exactly. We can move on."

"You dummy!" The drow tackled him. Artemis became panicky and struggled back into a sitting position. Jarlaxle was hugging him to his chest. "I don't want to move on!" He kissed the assassin on the mouth. "It does work; if I have anything to say about it, it'll work for the next hundred years."

"What are you talking about?" Artemis said.

"I care! Don't you know what it takes to make me care?" Jarlaxle said, his embrace erratically tightening and loosening in time to his train of thought.

"No, no, not really," the assassin said, but he was cut off by his companion kissing him on the mouth again. "Is this some kind of – joke?"

"It's a miracle!" Jarlaxle said. He ran his fingers over Artemis' face. "I had my best friend leave on me! I should never have begun to care about someone else ever again!" This was his brilliant, beautiful revelation. "Imagine if I had never gone to the surface?"

Artemis couldn't get a word in edgewise. He thought that his friend was having some kind of emotional seizure. "…You would have – continued on with your life?"

When Jarlaxle kissed him for the third time, he couldn't help himself. He participated in it. "I don't think this is –" he said before he was lost in another kiss.

"You are magnificent!" Jarlaxle said.

Artemis looked a little wild-eyed. "Mag –?"

That was the last word either of them said before the assassin fell over backwards with Jarlaxle on top of him. Jarlaxle's hands were straying all over him as their mouths locked together. He couldn't keep his eyes open; the sensations were overpowering him, too intense. "We're not even completely off the road!" the assassin said, his hands on Jarlaxle's chest, pushing him away. The drow slipped a slender wand from his belt and gestured with it.

"There," Jarlaxle said, grinning breathlessly. "Now we're invisible. Happy?"

"You wasted magic just to be able to have your way with me?" Artemis said, gaping at him.

"It recharges," Jarlaxle said. "A circle of invisibility, casts five times per day." He slipped it back into his belt. "I got it when we visited Rashold." He nuzzled Artemis' neck.

"What about the horses?"

"Oh, they're in here. Besides. They know not to wander. They're smart."

Jarlaxle was about to begin again. Artemis said, "We're invisible, but we're not silent. We'll be heard. Especially you."

The drow grinned. "I still have the wand from last time."

"Wai –" The section of the road and field around them plunged into silence.

_Now people can sneak up on us_, Artemis gestured desperately.

_We're invisible, _Jarlaxle said, flicking his hand impatiently. _Besides, you were just saying how the road is unnaturally deserted. _

_I'm uncomfortable_. Artemis stared at him uncompromisingly. _Now let me up. _

Jarlaxle made a sign that meant Artemis had ruined their ambush, which the assassin translated as, _Spoilsport. _

He got up and brushed himself off. _Well, at least traveling will be safer like this. _

Artemis looked up at him, then struggled to his own feet and tried to assess how many grass stains he'd sustained.


	4. Consideration

Now that they were magically silent, there was no way to have conversation as they rode down the road. This suited Artemis fine. He was frightened of the loving glances his companion kept sending his way. Jarlaxle, in his estimation, was acting just like a woman. First they'd argued, and now the drow wanted to make up as if nothing had happened.

Well, it had.

Any sane man would have held a grudge against Artemis for what he'd done. He'd bothered Jarlaxle with his dreams, then he'd insisted that Jarlaxle become his bedmate simply because Jarlaxle was the only person he'd trusted at the time, and then he'd cut it off when he realized that the pervasive emotion he'd been struggling with for months was only lust, and deserved to die violently.

He'd thought that they were becoming friends – then just as quickly, had thought that they cared for each other in…_ways_.

The assassin sent a smoldering glare at Jarlaxle when the drow wasn't looking. He was angry with himself.

He lived in a world where there was no room for mistakes. Most of the time, he was able to uphold that standard. But somehow, his perfection seemed a dam behind which mistakes built up. Over time, what could have been any number of little mistakes converged into a mistake like a mountainous blob of hideous misfortune.

Artemis Entreri could easily see his mistakes ruining their friendship – partnership, he corrected. Whatever. He didn't know what it was anymore. It was all too tangled up. And it was his fault.

Mm. In the 'friendship' department, things usually were.

He'd had a friend or two, or a couple of people who claimed to be his friends, but usually a couple weeks of him made them so sick of his attitude that they'd exited with a lot of boring, self-righteous speeches, yelled at the top of their lungs. He'd been less than crushed, and had told them so at the nearest opportunity. The first one had been a girl who couldn't believe that he was an assassin. He'd honestly almost snapped her neck to shut her up.

But Jarlaxle wasn't like any of those other people who had claimed to want to know him. At first, he'd thought that the drow's smiles and his melodramatic mannerisms were insincere. With time, he'd changed his mind and decided that Jarlaxle was simply a madman – some kind of lunatic psychopath escaped from the Underdark. Clever, but hindered by the fact that he was utterly deranged. That impression was replaced by a third, which was the most complicated impression of the drow mercenary yet; a man controlled by conflicting philosophies fighting for dominance.

He could almost see the platitudes writhing under the surface of Jartlaxle's skin. 'The best way to fight the demon of fear is to laugh at it'; 'Honesty is the best policy'; 'The only good man is a dead man'; 'Kill first, ask questions later'; 'A white lie never hurt anyone'; 'Silence is golden'; 'If you smile, then the world smiles back'. Artemis didn't think Jarlaxle knew what to make of all the sayings he'd collected, all the conventional wisdom he seemed to fond of.

Artemis found himself drawn to Jarlaxle, drawn by the constant conflicts the drow held, conflicts that Jarlaxle expressed even in small ways, like his taste in clothing. He wanted something from Jarlaxle, wanted something he hadn't wanted from someone else for as long as he could remember. It manifested itself as a sort of hunger in the assassin's heart that kept him awake at night.

And now he'd found out that that wasn't really what he'd wanted; all he'd wanted was carnal pleasure.

Artemis frowned, beginning to give himself a headache.

Or was it true that he had, in fact, truly wanted what he hadn't dared ask for from anyone for fear of being killed or tortured?

He was coming back to the site of the tangle again. If he could only pick apart that knot, he'd be free. This he felt instinctively; he knew it to whatever core of being he possessed. If he could just work himself free…

First in Aberiss, he'd divulged his embarrassing nightmares of being stalked by Jarlaxle, then trapped in an alley and being attacked by the drow. Jarlaxle had been…understanding. There was no other word for it. He had listened, he had not grown angry as the assassin had feared, and he had promised not to do any such thing. And they'd implied some sort of agreement to be friends. And at the time, in the early hours of the morning and disoriented by his nightmares, he'd been grateful. He'd been happy. The next day was a blur. He vaguely remembered looking over what mercenary jobs Aberiss had to offer. The memory had strange, warm edges to it. It hadn't been remarkable in any way, and yet he remembered it as being remarkable, as being special. He remembered laughing with Jarlaxle over the ridiculousness of the job descriptions.

And that was the beginning of the knot. He'd thought that what he wanted so badly from Jarlaxle was closeness. This translated somehow into the actions that he was ashamed of; somehow when he tried to make sense of their new friendship, he'd ended up…saying things, and doing things. Sexual things. With _Jarlaxle_. He would never have chosen someone so…It was _Jarlaxle_.

On top of that, once he'd done them, he was upset at Jarlaxle for doing the same things that the drow mercenary had always done. He was driven to the urge to hack someone's body apart just because Jarlaxle had noticed the assets of the barmaid that waited on them when they'd eaten dinner. In short, Artemis had been insane. He never wanted to feel that way again.

And now Jarlaxle was wondering what had happened, and Artemis was too closed-mouthed with his numbing feeling of being in a nightmare to tell him.

This _can't_ be reality, Artemis Entreri thought, resisting the urge to openly bury his face in his hands.

What he'd done was abundantly clear to him now. He'd been right to say what he'd said to Jarlaxle when they rested the horses. It was a mistake. The assassin straightened in his saddle bravely, clenching his jaw to ward off an unfamiliar emotion that was causing him pain. And if there was an ounce of caring in his companion, Jarlaxle would let him explain, let him untangle the knot he'd created, and let them part ways.

The magical silence weighed heavily on his chest.

Jarlaxle, meanwhile, was thinking about his own side of their strange relationship. He realized that in the midst of his revelation, he'd been so pleased that he'd once again overlooked the key component that Artemis' confusion played in whether or not they actually had a future together.

He knew there was something incredible at work if he could feel real compassion for someone else, much less feel as deeply as he did about Artemis. That part of his life had largely shut down, what small representation it had in his life, when Zak died. Or, if you prefer, Jarlaxle thought, committed suicide.

Since then, he'd really only felt mild stirrings of interest or polite sympathy for other people. There were a few in his mercenary organization whom he'd rather not lose, but he thought of them as possessions. This didn't bother him, since they almost certainly in turn viewed him as some sort of hostile creature either to be placated or killed as soon as possible. It was a relationship he could live with.

But not when it came to Artemis. He'd grown concerned lately because he did not think of Artemis Entreri as an assassin, as a valuable asset, or even as a diplomatic tool or a passport. He thought of Artemis as a person. The first couple months with Artemis, he had been simply Entreri the assassin to Jarlaxle.

After that, Jarlaxle knew that lines in his mind began to blur. Soon, the human was 'Entreri'. And now, more recently, even 'Entreri' had sounded too distant in his head, and the man had become 'Artemis' to him.

He'd always casually noted that his companion was attractive, for a human, and this had amused him. Unfortunately, now it didn't. His companion's appearance gnawed at him. He couldn't be sure whether he was worried, made lonely, or attracted to Artemis.

Why couldn't it be all three? he asked himself. It fits.

He'd studied human behavior –after all, if he planned to become a part of a surface society, elves certainly wouldn't take him. His best bet was convincing the humans of the surface that he was an acceptable addition to their lives. That meant assimilating. And he'd tried. He'd learned the language, reasonably eliminating his accent, he'd taken a profession that humans allowed room for other races to participate in, and he'd shown that he could work with them. He'd befriended Artemis.

Or, he'd tried. But to his surprise, the assassin was sticking out of his society, much like Jarlaxle had in Menzoberranzan. He found himself using what he'd learned in drow society to try to communicate with Artemis. Jarlaxle always believed that communication was a key in any relationship.

Artemis was very much like a drow. Young, perhaps. Jarlaxle had found himself feeling almost a sort of brotherly feeling – at least he thought it might be that, since he hadn't exactly grown up around his brothers, and if he had, he might have been forced to kill most of them, given the nature of drow society.

Jarlaxle had decided that he would do Artemis a favor and turn him back into a human. That was how he'd thought of it – a transformation back to the way the assassin was supposed to have turned out in the first place.

Then, even that game had turned into something more.

It had gotten to be more and more about himself.

Every time he thought about trying to tell Artemis something that could make the man self-sufficient, he'd drawn back and hesitated. He didn't want to let go. Jarlaxle couldn't do it because he wanted to have something Artemis needed. That was the same way he kept control over his mercenaries. But now, it was for a different motive that he'd…done this. The drow mercenary didn't want to give up his self appointed role in Artemis' life. It gave him excuses to meddle, to be nosy, and it was all for his own benefit.

If he really cared about Artemis, he probably wouldn't have done it. Artemis needed a real friend. Jarlaxle knew there were plenty of surface dwellers who wouldn't do the things he'd done. They would be reliable friends. They wouldn't lead Artemis further into danger on a whim to get a high off of escaping death and earning grandiose sums of money.

Perhaps after living in the Underdark so long, he was addicted to that feeling; the feeling of death. Perhaps Artemis was right; he did wallow in disaster. He needed it, to justify the way he lived his life. All the paranoia, the magical items, the insanely twisted plans. Then he could point at the events and say, I was justified!

If he cared, he'd free Artemis of his influence while he still could. If it wasn't already too late, thanks to him.

Jarlaxle didn't know what he was going to do without Artemis the next time someone accused him of kidnapping small children or poisoning crops and other colloquial, superstitious things, but he knew that shouldn't be the assassin's problem.


	5. Breathe

That night was one of the most painful times either of them had probably ever felt before. By some unspoken agreement, they avoided eye contact with each other, and both stayed up until almost two o'clock in the morning. Jarlaxle spent most of his time staring at the stars.

He wasn't aware of the fact that he'd slipped into a reverie until he found himself wandering through a familiar hallway. None of the doors were closed. He almost had the feeling that something he sought was behind one of the doors, and if he opened it, the right one, then he could stop looking. Instead, he walked past them all.

His dream continued along that vein for quite a while, he was walking and looking at all the doors. It was a common enough thing for him to do when he was thinking.

"When did it happen?" he heard someone else say.

Then the dream shifted, and he found himself in the cave-like master bedroom he'd had at his mercenary headquarters. A woman lounged on his bed with a coy expression on her face. She was wearing a dress so grayed and torn it looked like a rag. She'd always dressed like that.

The woman reached out languidly and took his hand, her long nails biting into his skin. She placed his hand on her stomach. "You're a father," she said.

He said nothing, and turned away.

"What's the matter?" she said, her voice rich with amusement. Though he couldn't see her, he knew that she was smiling at him. "Didn't you enjoy me?"

Jarlaxle, the witness to the himself of the past, had a sick feeling burning from his throat to his chest and stomach, as if he'd swallowed poison. His voice, when it came, was cold. "Get rid of it," he said.

He knew she'd been stunned.

"You heard me." He walked out of the room.

When he found her hung the next morning, he hadn't been surprised. He'd merely had her cut down and then went for a walk in the monster infested wilderness, leaving all his mercenaries wondering about him. As he'd left, they'd parted for him, staring. He knew they couldn't understand his coldness; it frightened them. Even about this, there was an emotion running so icily through his veins that it was no emotion at all.

He didn't care whether or not one of the many creatures who made the wilderness their home attacked him, but even though he sensed them nearby, they wouldn't attack. He thought that was probably for the best.

For a while, he wondered why he was reliving this. It was a numb question in the back of his mind as he walked through a forest of glowing mushrooms.

He knew that if he ate so much as a handful of one of the huge, glowing caps, he'd die. The bright lemon glow of the fungus was comforting to him for that reason. Why should he wait until someone else finished him off? It was tempting to claim one last triumph and ensure he died his own way.

He hadn't, of course, and the part of Jarlaxle that was not part of the dream knew this. This mood had passed through him. He'd left it lying in the wilderness of the Underdark somewhere, among the forest of mushrooms, where it rightfully belonged.

He wanted kill off the Underdark bit by bit, until there were no more drow. He wanted to live to see the vast cities devastated, devoid of life, littered with dead, black-skinned bodies. They deserved to die off. One by one, he would pick off people until there was just him, and then he would stand on the highest summit he could find that overlooked his city, and he would stab himself.

Jarlaxle's shoulders shook. Now that Zulameza had died, all he had left was Zaknafein, and once he murdered his best friend, all he had left was his band of mercenaries and his 'family'. Then he would move on to business associates, and after that, people he didn't even know. He'd systematically remove everyone he knew so that there was nothing to stop him from his path of destruction. After Menzoberranzan, he'd pick apart Ched Nasad. That would probably take him a while. He'd find it easy after he destroyed two cities. The rest would be easy.

He'd finally be in peace. The drow mercenary closed his eyes. No more people to bother him. No more people to close their fingers around his heart and leave long gouges when he pried their fingers off of his soul. Everyone inevitably hurt him somehow, and by then it was too late to stop them.

Lloth mocked him. So, you're just a mere male after all. You'd undo the fate you secured for yourself with your cunning.

Jarlaxle jerked. His body was convulsing uncontrollably. He thought in benumbed terror that he was having some kind of seizure. Jarlaxle suddenly snapped out of his reverie and found himself face to face with Artemis. He stared into the assassin's eyes, startled. The man was shaking him awake. He felt briefly disoriented.

Artemis looked…frightened.

"What is going on?" Jarlaxle asked. He was lying on his back in the grass, his hat on the ground beside him.

"Jarlaxle," Artemis said. "You weren't breathing."

"I wasn't –" Jarlaxle irritably sat up and swatted the assassin's hands away. Then he put his wide brimmed hat back on, adjusting it. He narrowed his eyes at his companion. "What do you mean I wasn't breathing?"

"You were turning blue," Artemis said. "Or whatever color it is that you drow turn when you're choking to death."

Jarlaxle felt fear flutter in his stomach. "I wasn't choking to death," he said, and automatically put a hand to his neck. He felt a bruise. That flutter in his stomach flared nearly out of control. Then he felt someone directly behind him and almost levitated straight up in the air. Jarlaxle spun, proving that there was no one behind him. "We're getting out of here!" The drow mercenary ran, but Artemis was still mounted on his steed before the elf.

It wasn't yet light, but they rode for hours and only stopped when the sun was in the sky and it was halfway to afternoon.


	6. A Mass Of Confusion

"What do we keep on riding for?" Jarlaxle asked. They all smelled of sweat. Just before dawn, they'd gone over the small bridge over the creek they'd rested at only a few days ago.

"A town," Artemis said. "_Any_ town. I'm not sleeping in these haunted fields another night!" He wanted to kick violently at the waving fields of lavender still cropping up now and then. "Not so pretty now, is it?" he snarled.

"Don't take your close encounter out on me," Jarlaxle said.

"_My _close enounter?" Artemis said. "You're the one that nearly got strangled, you idiot!"

They were full blown yelling at each other as the horses tiredly trotted along, their heads sagging. It relieved much of their tension, and the both of them knew they'd needed it. Neither of them had voiced the things they'd thought about the previous day, and they were both using this mysterious encounter where Jarlaxle was nearly strangled and the premonition Artemis experienced about Perrin to distract themselves.

Both of them felt sore and dirty from head to foot when the four of them, Artemis, Jarlaxle, and their horses, finally crawled into town, a collection of wooden buildings with peaked roofs connected by a dirt road snaking through. Jarlaxle noticed chickens underfoot and tried not to step on them. They were smart enough to see that he was a tired man and got out of the way.

A large, bleached building three stories high was on the other side of the clearing in the center of town. The drow pointed at it weakly. "Do you suppose that's the inn?" he said. He watched a wooden sign with a horseshoe on it creak in the wind.

Artemis grunted.

Then a passing farmer, probably headed to the inn as well for a beer after a long morning of chores, saw them, double-taked, and then grimly shoved a pitchfork in Jarlaxle's face. "Stop, evil drow."

Jarlaxle hung his head. He was so tired that this gesture imbalanced him and toppled him forward onto the ground. He didn't bother to brace himself. Partially despair. It debilitated him far worse than being tired. "Please, not today. I'm too tired to do anything evil."

"Leave him alone," the assassin snapped, glaring at the heavyset man in their way. "Does he really look like a threat? He's wearing a purple hat for god's sake." He was too tired and at the end of his rope to actually think of the name of an appropriate god.

The farmer eyed them doubtfully.

"Your lavender plains are _haunted_," Artemis said. "Now get out of our way before _your_ spirit haunts this mudhole." He drew his dagger.

The farmer hastily stepped aside. His eyes were wide. "Ghosts are on the prowl? Cassandra should have taken care of them a hundred and thirty five years ago!"

"Local legend?" Artemis asked, raising an eyebrow acidly. He grabbed Jarlaxle's arm and dragged him, taking the reins of the elf's horse for him.

"Aye," the farmer said. "Aye – Yes." He seemed shaken.

Jarlaxle struggled to his feet, but found that the assassin wouldn't let go of his arm. "I'm walking," he said, and stumbled over a rock. Artemis jerked him back to his feet. "I'm walking," Jarlaxle said again. Why are my legs so wobbly? Damnit, I look drunk. But what had hit him over the head like a brick was how he and Artemis would never see each other again. His eyes burned, and he didn't think it was from exhaustion. He was just waiting for the right time to do it.

Artemis kicked the stable door, startling a boy with dirt on his face out of hiding. The assassin thrust three gold coins into his hands and left the horses there.

"I said I'm walking," the drow mercenary said.

Artemis ignored him. He burst through the front door of the inn, still dragging Jarlaxle by the arm. The few men sitting around tables at this hour froze, and the innkeeper, one of many ubiquitous balding men that all melted together for the assassin, ducked underneath his counter. "We're tired," Artemis said, purposefully focusing on the desk where the innkeeper had been. "Get us a room. And a bath. Quickly."

"I don't let people talk to me that way," the innkeeper said from under his desk.

The assassin rolled his eyes. "I'm sure. Get out from under there and do your job, you coward." He had no patience for tact at the moment.

"You're not making friends," Jarlaxle said. He surreptitiously looked around. "Let go of me."

"Coward?" the innkeeper said, his mild-mannered voice offended. "You're frightening me."

Artemis sighed. He walked over, at last letting go of Jarlaxle's arm. The drow rubbed it furtively and watched as the assassin took out several gold coins, bent down, and poked them through a crack between the desk counter and the floor.

The innkeeper was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Room 4."

"Will you get up and show us yourself?" Artemis said, peering over the counter at him skeptically.

"Martha," the innkeeper said, "Show this man his room. And heat up the bath for him, will you, my dear?"

A young girl no older than eighteen emerged, wearing a white apron over a checkered brown dress, and pointed at the stairs. Artemis followed.

Jarlaxle took off his hat, bowed to everyone in the room, and smiled sheepishly. "I'm afraid he gets carried away," he said, and then followed his companion up the stairs.

Their room was at the end of a long hallway, right next to the bathing room. Artemis caught a glimpse of a bathtub as Martha opened the door and slipped inside. Then he turned to Jarlaxle. He had to admit he felt substantially safer now that they were in a town, inside an inn, in broad daylight. He wasn't used to feeling safer anywhere. It flooded him with a pleasant sense of euphoria. He was actually smiling. "Now this is personal," he said, indicating the livid bruise on Jarlaxle's throat. "I'll bet you're eager to go back there as soon as possible and challenge those ghosts to a duel."

Jarlaxle touched it self-consciously and found that it had swelled slightly like a welt. "Not especially," he said.

"What about your honor?" Artemis said.

"I have no honor."

The maid, Martha, emerged from the small room with the bathtub. "Tha', tha' bath does itself now practically with Elwig's furnace," she stammered. "You run water through the pipes along the wall there," she pointed at the two brass pipes long the wall, "an', an', if you want hot, you turn the hot handle on tha' tub an' wait for the furnace to hea' up tha water." She curtsied, looked at Jarlaxle, turned white, and hurried down the stairs.

Artemis grinned at him. "She's afraid of you already. Probably heard your reputation. She doesn't want to lose her virginity yet."

Jarlaxle feigned a hurt expression without any real feeling behind it and looked longingly at the tub.

Artemis gestured, "By all means, go first. But if you take too long, I'll assume you fell asleep and drowned, so I'll come in. Make it quick." He scratched his chin.

"Did you have our bags brought up?" Jarlaxle asked.

The assassin pushed him into the room with the words, "I'll go downstairs and get it. Start your bath already."

He jogged down the stairs, invigorated at the prospect of being clean, something which he enjoyed. It didn't take him long to talk to the stable boy and get their bags from the horses. "Thank ye kindly, sir," the boy said, tipping his woolen cap, but Artemis ignored him, having already turned his back and begun heading back inside the inn. He was talking about the money, the assassin reminded himself. He was busy holding a travel bag over each shoulder, but his conscience got the best of him anyway. He waved his hand before going through the door that connected the stables to the main room of the inn.

By this time, Jarlaxle was watching the tub fill up with a jet of steaming water that poured out of the brass spigot. He'd stripped out of his filthy clothing, which had actually changed color from the grass, dirt, and sweat. His boots needed a shine, he noticed, examining them as they lay awkwardly on the floor side by side. He glanced over at himself in the mirror hanging on the wall, but it was already fogging up before he could see much.

He slipped into the tub when it was still half full and let out a contented sigh. Some drow had massages as their chosen means of relaxation. Jarlaxle had baths. He preferred it to the thought of someone else touching him, no matter how well trained, or, as the case may be, downtrodden and submissive. He preferred steaming, scented water.

There was white soap in a holder carved into the rim of the tub, so he wouldn't even have to get up to get it. He thought it was an amazingly advanced bathing room for such a small town, but he remembered that the maid had mentioned an Elwig. Hmm. Most likely a gnome. That was interesting.

The drow waited until the tub was almost full enough for any movement to make the water slosh out of the top over the rim and turned it off. The whole room was clouded up.

The bruise on his neck started throbbing. He didn't have time to look at it in the mirror, but it felt like a palm and fingers. How rude.

Jarlaxle heard a knock on the door, and then saw it open enough for his travel bag to get through. It thudded to the floor. The door closed. Artemis. Part of Jarlaxle wanted the assassin to come back and ogle. But he knew Artemis wouldn't. Artemis respected peoples' privacy when bathing because of a phobia he himself had of being watched.

Regretfully, keeping in mind that Artemis was filthy too, he scrubbed himself with the soap, rinsed off, and dressed in fresh clothing. He didn't bother to put his boots back on. He'd just carry them around the corner into their inn room.

It was a bit of a handful to carry his boots, his dirty clothing, and his travel bag, so he took two trips with it. The second trip was his bag, and when he deposited it on the floor of the room, he looked up. Jarlaxle blinked in surprise. Their new room was spacious; sunlight flooded through a tall window across from the door, and their bed wasn't a cramped captain's bed, it was a four poster thing with drapes to keep the cold out. "I thought you didn't like resting in luxury," the drow mercenary said.

Artemis was in a corner of the large room, looking pensively into a mirror that sat atop a small, polished dresser. "I don't." The man turned, took in the sight of Jarlaxle, then walked past him, taking his own travel bag.

Jarlaxle turned and watched him close the bathing room door behind him.

The drow mercenary felt sleepy. His eyelids were heavy, and all his exhaustion from the long journey came back to him with the force of a building falling on him. I'm going to faint, he thought. He stripped of all his clothing again and slid under the deep red covers of the four poster bed. He found it to be so soft that he was quickly drifting into blackness.

After Artemis gave himself the quickest bath he could manage, he set off downstairs. The puny innkeeper hid again at the sight of him. "You gave us the wrong room," the assassin said.

"It's the best one I have!"

Artemis scowled. "That's the problem."

"But – But you –"

He didn't have to finish his sentence. Artemis looked thoughtful, stroking his chin. "I did, didn't I."

The assassin turned on his heel and headed back up the stairs.

Before the drow could really make it to a state of reverie, he felt a tug on the bed covers, and then a weight on the opposite side of the bed. Artemis? he thought drowsily. His body was too heavy and comfortable to move.

Jarlaxle felt hands brushing the skin on his abdomen, a body pressing against his arm. They were warm, callused hands. He turned his head, though he couldn't open his eyes. "Artemis?"

"Mmmn," Artemis said. He was fully clothed except for his boots. Adrenaline, and uncertainty, was keeping him awake. He wanted to tell Jarlaxle everything he'd been thinking, hoping that Jarlaxle would listen this time instead of trying to turn everything into a sexual encounter. "I don't think we should do this anymore."

"We shouldn't be mercenaries?" Jarlaxle mumbled. He was clearly too tired for the conversation. Artemis felt a pang of despair.

"No," Artemis said. "We shouldn't be doing _this_."

"What are we doing?" the drow said. He shifted slightly in the bed, stretching one arm out above his head on the pillow. "Talking?"

"Being," Artemis said. "Together."

Jarlaxle frowned. "You mean what should we be doing? Being separately?" He was trying to fight, trying to stay awake. He almost surfaced out of his semi-conscious state, but failed. He reached out in the general direction of Artemis and found him. He ran his hand down whatever part of Artemis it was. He could feel the material of an article of Artemis' clothing, probably a shirt. He rolled over into the assassin's body. "I don't want to being separate," Jarlaxle said. "I like being together. It is better than being alone. I don't…want things to be…the way they were." He snuggled up against the other man, smelling soap, feeling that Artemis was cold from his bath; Artemis almost always bathed in cold water after soaking away soreness from his muscles with hot water. "Artemis…Don't you like being together?"

Artemis wavered at this rare loose-tongued response from the drow. "Yes…" He shifted reluctantly. "But I thought it was…something special." His voice revealed his anguish.

"It is not?" Jarlaxle shifted, burying his face in the clean fabric of Artemis' shirt. "It is special to me. It is not something I do. I have said things to you…which I do not say to other people. It makes me…I feel…Vulnerable…Around other people…But you do not –" He reached out and took Artemis' arm, pleading. "Even for a few moments, you make me feel less alone – The Underdark is Alone. All the time."

Artemis gathered his arms around his companion, holding him, stunned. No one had ever turned to him for anything. Not knowing who he was. What he was. What he'd done. Someone needing something from him – the part of him that was personal, not some distant machine of arms and legs and killing devices – it was foreign to him. He didn't know if he liked it. It made his chest hurt.

His companion was asking something of Artemis. Not the Assassin. It was like someone suddenly seeing past him, clean through to the sick, scared child he'd been before he became someone that people would notice. He'd never really been that person ever since he became an assassin. He'd tried not to be. That part of himself wasn't what people wanted. "What are you saying?" he said, stalling.

There is no way I can have you, Jarlaxle thought. I can't possibly do anything to deserve you. It would be another matter if you were the cold blooded man you seem. Then I wouldn't miss a reverie thinking about how I could please you. I could do whatever I wanted with you. "I'm saying…" The drow hung his head and turned away, twisting out of Artemis' grasp. "I'm saying that I am wrong," Jarlaxle said. He felt as though he were wrenching his heart out of his chest. "I shouldn't be doing this to you."

Artemis reacted with frustration stirring in his chest. He had one fleeting moment where he wondered if he was sane. "Your damned paternal streak," Artemis growled, grabbing the elf by the arms and shoving him against the bed. He kissed Jarlaxle angrily, purposefully biting the drow's lower lip, and felt Jarlaxle's body squirming against him.

Then he bit Jarlaxle's ear. He felt rather than heard the drow's gasp, Jarlaxle's chest rising desperately against his and then flattening. The hard metal of Jarlaxle's earring was between his teeth, right where it intersected with his companion's earlobe.

"Stop," Jarlaxle said. His heart was pounding and his vision was hazy. He felt half detached from his body. "_Stop_." I can't believe this. I actually like this. My body's reacting like crazy. Make it stop. The assassin clenched his teeth down on the drow's ear again. "_Artemis_." Jarlaxle managed to get his hands between them, the assassin's own hands still clamped around his wrists, and pushed up on Artemis' chest. "What's gotten into you?"

Artemis' face was throbbing hotly. He opened his mouth, brushing his lips against Jarlaxle's ear as the elf pushed him away. He glanced at Jarlaxle's face. When their eyes met, he couldn't look away. His stomach suddenly started churning. He stared into those eyes. The eye. Jarlaxle was still wearing that eye patch, which Artemis had grown so used to seeing it no longer bothered him. "How…How could you leave me?" The assassin's voice rasped. His throat had gone dry. Dried up like a river in the desert. Artemis could not understand; he understood nothing about this moment, how he had ended up on top of Jarlaxle, in a bed in a foreign place, how they'd come here. "How can you say one thing to me and do another thing the next?" he asked. "How can you…"

Something didn't make sense to the drow mercenary. "Do you not wish to make choices the way you have in the rest of your life?" Jarlaxle asked. He thought of what he had done as soon as the opportunity had come; pushing Artemis to the ground and trying to have his way with the assassin. "I am forcing myself on you; I have been, and will continue to do so if you continue to tempt me by being my partner." His eyes narrowed searchingly, trying to grasp hints from Artemis' face. "Haven't I – Does this not _bother_ you?"

His entire understanding of Artemis' nature was thrown into question, shadowed by his friend's behavior. Artemis had told him they couldn't be together, then he'd said some half-awake gibberish about being alone, and now Artemis was accusing him of _wanting_ to be alone.

Artemis almost laughed. Choices? What choices? "I don't think you understand why I became an assassin," he said.

Jarlaxle settled down for a long story. He had a feeling it would be, at least by Artemis' standards. He didn't know why, but trusting Artemis, it was something he had to say, or else he wouldn't say it. The drow would just have to wait for it to tie into their conversation. Instead of being confused at the abrupt turn the conversation seemed to be taking, he laid his ebony hand on Artemis' back patiently and said, "Why did you become an assassin?"

Artemis smiled darkly, the expression full of sardonic amusement. "I was homeless and without a means of preventing other thugs from preying on me. There was a choice between being taken in by a pasha, or starving to death. I did it to impress someone so that I could win someone's approval. His praise, his money, and his protection. Gifts. Clothing. Food. Water." He tossed his hair out of his eyes, which burned into the drow. He was coming to his point. "I did it to please somebody else."

Jarlaxle sensed that it was dangerous to say something, but Artemis was talking, and he did not think he would get the chance again. It was an obvious question. He had a bad feeling about this. "What happened to your parents?"

The assassin grew cold. All the life leeched out of his eyes, his mouth, his body, until he may as well have been born a statue in a temple. For a split second, Jarlaxle was afraid for his life. Artemis didn't move. "My mother was a slave," he said. His voice seemed to have retreated someplace deep inside of him. His words came up from those cavernous depths heavy and slow. "She was the consolation prize of a disagreement between families of nobility. I was the last result before my father grew tired of her and killed her. She was gone, so I was the replacement."

Re…place…ment? The drow mercenary was slow in understanding what that particular word meant. It suddenly sounded foreign to him; for a moment, he retreated into a drow's ignorance of human tongues. A flash of light pierced his darkness. Jarlaxle thought vaguely of how painful bright flashes of insight were. He wanted to hide in a cave. The drow became aware that he was hugging Artemis, rocking the man gently in his arms, with no intention of letting him go anytime soon.

"I make no choices," Artemis said. "People make choices for me."

Cruel, Jarlaxle thought, imagining in a corner of his mind what a life for a child that would make. He took solace in the word, being able to say it, to name it, to label that thing and finally be rid of it, casting it away. _Cruel_. He stroked the side of the human's rough cheek with his fingertips, more as catharsis for himself than any attempt to comfort Entreri.

Another flash of light in the darkness bore his revelation. It's too late for him.

Jarlaxle stilled, stunned. It was impossible to fix him, to undo whatever he had done to change himself. It was exactly the same with Jarlaxle. He was too late to change anything; to change into the people that could work together, that could trust each other. There would always be a doubt. It was too late.

He couldn't make Artemis into someone who could make up for his lack of anything, into someone who could accommodate him. He would have to accept what Artemis could and couldn't do. He'd been pushing his friend to take on more and more responsibility. He'd wanted the assassin to wrestle his own conscience instead of letting Jarlaxle 'talk' him into things. Once Artemis had started doing that, the elf had assigned even harder things to the assassin's control. Now he saw that Artemis was at his breaking point. He couldn't take any more of Jarlaxle's abuse, trying to bend him into a shape more comparable to other humans the drow mercenary had seen. Jarlaxle's last ditch attempt to try to get Artemis' sexuality out into the open had almost killed him.

"I don't want to take choices anymore," Artemis said. His gray eyes intensified, becoming almost black. His fingernails gouged lines down Jarlaxle's wrists. "I want to make them _for_ you. I want you to stay. I _need _you to stay."

Where have I gone so wrong? Jarlaxle thought. I've misjudged him again. "Then I will stay," he said, smoothing his face out into a mask of innocence, blinking up at the assassin amiably. He politely refrained from mentioning this complete reversal of attitudes from what he'd started to say in the beginning.

The assassin began to tremble. He buried his face in Jarlaxle's neck. Artemis let go of his friend's wrists and shuddered, curling his arms underneath his chest. "Never make me do that again." Unreasoning tendrils of fear snaked through his body. "I'll kill you if you make me do that again."

Jarlaxle had been right after all. He had nearly pushed Artemis to the breaking point. It was his fault that Artemis was incomprehensible. "I hadn't meant to take it so far," he said. "I almost called it off when you needed so much time to think about it. I almost pulled you aside and explained to you that all that mattered was your happiness. I'm sorry. I should have done that; I let myself pressure you, I shouldn't have tried so hard. I believed that you had to be the one to make decisions for you and me. I thought you had rejected me. I thought I had made myself unwelcome."

"You think too much," Artemis said.


	7. Final Chapter

Their relationship had changed. That was painfully clear.

They lay in the bed in silence. Jarlaxle absently stroking Artemis' chin, his eyes looking over the top of the man's head. Artemis lying on top of him, warmed by the drow's body, hyper-vigilant to every sound and movement in the room. He couldn't stop his awareness of how tiny motes of dust fell through the room, highlighted by the sun through the window. Or the sound of his and Jarlaxle's breathing, sighing in and out, sometimes overlapping.

Jarlaxle didn't want to say it. He didn't want to say how Artemis wasn't his friend; he was…a key, or a new, small part inside of Jarlaxle, something sustaining him that could kill him. The drow mercenary felt that Artemis could either choose to keep him alive, or could choose to kill him, and now, in this stage, he could no longer try to manipulate Artemis' decision.

He thought of the woman who had been carrying his child. The pain that brought him was enormous; it didn't show on the surface; his expression didn't change, nor the rate of his breathing, but the pain was there. He'd grown so close to her…She had treated him like an equal, something that near broke his heart, a strange sensation to have in the Underdark, where everything had a price and nothing mattered. She mattered. She had mattered. There was never anything abusive between them, not even an occasional barb, a cruel jest, an insinuation. Then he'd said it. 'Get rid of it.'

The recollection of his own voice saying those words caused a physical reaction, an actual twitch, an involuntary muscle spasm.

"What's the matter?" Artemis asked, staring him in the eyes. "Am I hurting you?"

Jarlaxle didn't know whether or not he should answer. He felt somehow as if Artemis could sense if he answered truthfully. "I hurt myself," he said. "It's of no consequence."

He could see confusion in the assassin's eyes. And a struggle. Entreri almost didn't ask him this. "When?" Artemis asked.

"A long time ago. It's healed. I only accidentally touch it the wrong way when I'm thinking." Jarlaxle hoped he wouldn't have to elaborate.

Artemis' eyes traveled down Jarlaxle's bare body. "Where?"

The drow mercenary sighed. "Not like that," he said. "It's… It's _inside_. Now leave me alone."

"You don't have to talk to me as you would a child," Artemis said. "By 'inside', you mean it's something that you're thinking about." He paused. "A _memory_."

Guess or not, Artemis was correct. Jarlaxle shifted irritably. "My memories are not on display."

"I can hurt you," Artemis said, raising an eyebrow and pinching thumb and forefinger around one of Jarlaxle's earrings.

"I don't need your brand of concern," Jarlaxle said.

"And this was such a tender moment," Artemis said. His expression was mocking. "Now you've ruined it."

"I do not have to divulge every thing that crosses my mind," Jarlaxle said, pushing him away with anger on his face. His skin felt hot.

Artemis was on his hands and knees now, and what he wanted to do was try to curl up with Jarlaxle again. His body stiffened in silent warning, his instincts honed into a feeling of danger. He knew he would only be hurt if that's what he did. His more childish compulsion to return to Jarlaxle's arms was overruled.

It filled him with longing – how could he approach the drow without inflicted pain? He tried to find some way to rationalize Jarlaxle's anger with him. He searched, and found it. The assassin curled up on his own side of the bed. "You've been alone too long," he said. "You're not used to sharing anything you're thinking. I doubt you did much of that when you were leading those mercenaries of yours."

Jarlaxle gave pause. There was truth to something Artemis was saying, there. He didn't want anyone else to know what he was thinking. It was his first line of defense, a deeply buried habit of keeping those things to himself so that he could be inscrutable to everyone around him. Safe because it threw their calculations, entertaining because it frustrated others.

But maybe… But wouldn't it be profitable to tell Artemis what he was thinking? They were supposed to work together, not apart. Artemis could participate in his plans more fully if he could tell the assassin what was going on in his mind. If he could only trust Artemis enough to make himself be forthcoming, the rewards might be exponential. The drow tried to focus on that impersonal sort of sharing, and not the intimate thing Artemis was implying.

"Very well," he said, bestowing a dazzling smile upon his friend. "What would you like to know?"

"What you were thinking," Artemis said.

Ah, good. "When?" Jarlaxle asked.

"Right now," Artemis said.

Jarlaxle's smile wavered. Damn. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Artemis frowned. "I do. Now cough it up. What was so important that you changed the subject three times?"

"Two," Jarlaxle said, beaming brightly, and attempted not to show his level of unease. "I have only changed the subject two times." He held up two fingers and wiggled them in front of Artemis' face.

"Now three," the assassin retorted, instantly taking the opportunity Jarlaxle had unwittingly given him.

The drow looked surprised, then sank back to the pillows and pouted. Artemis never got the better of him. This isn't fair. He mulled it over, then brightened as he thought of using flattery. Given Artemis' past, he'll have had scant little of that, Jarlaxle thought. "All you need know is that you're the perfect man for me," he said, and folded his arms behind his head jauntily.

The hurt look in Artemis' eyes wiped the smile off his face. "You're avoiding the question," the assassin said. His expression was subdued, and he looked down at the bed instead of Jarlaxle.

"With less ease than usual, or else I'd have been successful, eh," Jarlaxle said, Artemis' reaction in turn subduing him.

"None of the ease which has come to be associated with 'usual'," Artemis said. His expression now slipped into something darker that resembled melancholy. "Thanks to me, there is no 'usual' anymore."

Jarlaxle narrowed his eyes at the assassin. Not melancholy, but… shame? Regret? "'Thanks to you', nothing," the drow said. "What you did is not any different from what I did."

Artemis' face stilled, and his eyes betrayed the sentiment that he didn't believe the drow. "Save your pity."

"Pity does not enter into this, I assure you," Jarlaxle said. "I speak nothing but the truth when I say that I am as much responsible for a share of the blame as you are. Now…" His expression softened. "Stop this. What use is it to harm yourself so?"

The more he got to know Artemis, the more he saw that the man was a walking conflict of changing moods. He would be happy, then sad, for no discernable reason. Now was no exception. They'd been talking, and the assassin had been unaffected; now he was taking personal insult to whatever Jarlaxle had said and retreating into a close-lipped depression.

"You don't want me."

Jarlaxle smacked the bed with his fist. "Confound it, we were just through this!" He instantly changed his demeanor to imploring, and reached out towards the man. "Come here."

It was the same. It was always the same. I close my eyes, and I come to him anyway. Artemis closed his eyes. He could feel himself trembling, slightly, slightly enough that he hoped Jarlaxle missed it. He inched towards the drow painfully on elbows and knees. Jarlaxle encircled him and gently drew him closer with his thin, muscular arms.

"I'll tell you," the drow mercenary said, his voice betraying irritation. "Does that make you happy? I'll _tell_ you." Jarlaxle paused. "I was thinking about my life before I met you."

There was a part of Artemis that still expected some punishment for his impudence in pressuring the drow. He nodded. "Go on."

"I was having trouble answering you…" Jarlaxle said, beginning to sound strained. "…because you are asking why I cannot have children."

Artemis' head snapped up, locking eyes with him incredulously. "Excuse me?" He's been plowing through the female population ever since he _got_ here. I thought impotence wasn't even a question.

"You have asked why I am unable to conceive children," Jarlaxle repeated. He was serious. If anything, he enunciated his words more precisely. "I am unable to have surviving children because of a deal I have made which is a binding contract to the effect of making the fate of my soul my own business."

"A demon," Artemis guessed. He could imagine Jarlaxle running afoul of one of the Nine Hells and signing a deal in order to escape. What that would have to do with children he had no idea. "You made this arrangement with a demon."

"She knew my nature even as I was born, She knew I wouldn't have any interest in men, She knew I would eventually give in to my lust," Jarlaxle said. He was distant.

"Wait, 'she'?" the assassin said, startled. He had to readjust his thinking about demons, then.

"We had a child."

Now Artemis was thoroughly confused. "You and what woman?"

Jarlaxle seemed to snap out of it long enough blink and him and say, "Zulameza," as if the assassin ought to have been listening more closely.

A drow woman, Artemis thought. "Oh." So this was a _long_ time ago.

Jarlaxle returned to his own world of bygone musings. "She could have killed me then or there, but she gave me a chance. Kill Zulameza and the child, and I would be allowed a second chance to live."

"You killed a woman and your unborn child?" the assassin said skeptically. He didn't think Jarlaxle had had it in him to do such a thing, even _if_ it meant the sacrifice of his own life.

But the drow shook his head, shook his head as a look of pain passed through his face. "I meant to compromise. I told her to get rid of the child."

"You mean, an abortion?" Artemis said. He'd heard of such things, but he'd also heard that it likely as not almost killed the woman in the process. Foul concoctions to poison the sleeping baby worked just as well to poison the woman carrying it. His brow furrowed in a deeper frown. "She died in the process?"

"An abortion?" Jarlaxle said, staring at the assassin incredulously. "No, not an abortion. The woman _hung_ herself." _Why would you think she would get an abortion?_ his expression said at Artemis.

"She –" Artemis' lips moved silently, as he was apparently speechless. "What? Why would she do a thing like that?"

Jarlaxle narrowed his eyes at the man venomously, almost regretting this story enough to consider killing Artemis for making him embark on this sordid tale. "Because she made me the center of her universe," Jarlaxle said. "Things I did and said _mattered_ to her. She told me I was a father, and I snapped at her to destroy the object that was giving her so much joy. She wanted that child. If I couldn't accept it, she – I –" He ran an agitated hand over his shaved head. It was rare that he became to emotional to finish his sentences.

Unreasoning hate was coursing through his veins, and he knew that it was hindering his ability to think clearly. He automatically disregarded any compulsions to torture the assassin… to torture Artemis to death over a period of months for putting him through this brand of hell.

"Then…Why?" Artemis said, pressing against Jarlaxle in a small, subconscious attempt to be comforting. "Why do you carry on with every maid that crosses your path?"

"Infertility charm," Jarlaxle said, holding up one hand. Artemis examined it, but didn't see anything that looked like anything of the sort. Apparently it was one of Jarlaxle's many rings, which would explain why he never took them off. He looked away from Artemis, choosing instead to stare across the room. His face was a mix of bitterness and disgust. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"What sort of demon would do this to you?" Artemis murmured, hesitantly stroking Jarlaxle's cheek. "Have you ever thought about defeating it? Surely you are powerful enough to free yourself after all…" Something in the drow's face made him trail off, stopping.

"She's not a demon," Jarlaxle said. His face slowly drained of emotion. His expression turned wooden. "She's Lloth the Spider Queen."


End file.
